The Persistence of Memory
by Safe Haven
Summary: Two jaded souls with dark pasts and uncertain futures, and the strange bond that pulls them together as much as it pushes them away. From the ashes of a tortured life and the seed of festering betrayal, a corrupted phoenix rises.
1. Autumn

I am fully aware that Kikyo is not a very popular character, but I find her to be highly intriguing. She's not a simple, straightforward 'bad guy' – she's many-layered and complex, with a jaded past and no clear purpose to fulfill in the imitation-life she was forced into. She's a tortured soul, shaped by a life of toil, confusion, lost love, and betrayal.

Please review, even flame if you want. They will be used to burn down that damn Christmas tree that's taken up residence in our house.

Oh yes – I do not own InuYasha, Kikyo, or any other characters utilized, mentioned, or otherwise alluded to from here on forth.

That said, let's get on with the story!

-

**The Persistence of Memory**

**Chapter One: Autumn**

"_I have done that_, says my memory.

_I cannot have done that, _says my pride, and remains adamant.

At last, memory yields."

- Nietzsche

Autumn has come to the world, the forest decked out like a frozen sunrise. The once-green forests are half-bare, the shivering boughs of the trees scantily clad in a thinning cover of flame-colored leaves. The dead husks rustle against each other with soft, dry whispers, trading secrets as old as time. The air is crisp and cool, having a faint, lingering kiss of sultry summer, and at the same time a cold edge that reminds of a winter not too far away.

xXxXxXx

There are many opinions on the nature of fall. Some say that it is a time of rest and rejuvenation, where nature is winding down before winter. Some hold that it is a busy time, where animals, humans, and even youkai are in a frenzy to prepare for that coming of winter, a silent yet mad rush to collect and horde food before hibernation.

Others say that fall is a time of remembrance, a time of reflection on the past, a time of recollection of the events and people that had filled and shaped those previous days. Good or bad, memories rise up from the dark depths of obscurity, like driftwood upon a turbulent ocean.

Like driftwood, such fragments of memory may be as a godsend to a drowning man, propping him up above the hungry waters of mental chaos. But also like driftwood, those remnants of memory can be a cluttering, smothering mass of polluted jetsam, a muddled heap of the detritus of shattered times. Ultimately, memory always seems to eventually come back, no matter how deep you thought you'd buried it.

xXxXxXx

It was an ancient forest, there could be no doubt about that; many of the trees were huge, and grew very close together.

It was an ancient forest, and a haunted one, if you believed the stories of the villagers. They said that demons lurked in the dense groves, that monsters took sport in luring unwary travelers to their deaths, that ghosts and restless spirits prowled the dark shadows.

A lot of people believed the stories, and they should, because most of them were true. Monsters, demons, ghosts, and worse plagued that forest like mice plagued a granary. Only the brave entered it, to hunt or gather or merely to prove how fearless they were.

But the brave never went so far in that they could not see their path clearly, and never did they go out of sight of where they had entered. Only the foolish went farther in, and only the foolish went alone. They weren't foolish for very long. Eventually, in fact usually quite quickly, they turned from foolish to dead.

Well, perhaps one exception could be made to that sentence. In the center of the forest that was, unexplainably, a small clearing. Relatively uncrowded by vegetation, it was as if time had slowed down here, and this little spot had never aged more than a few years as the rest of the forest grew ancient around it. Within the clearing, though, was one tree that seemed older than all the rest. It was huge, and as tall as a redwood.

That aforementioned exception stood facing that gigantic tree, an unreadable expression on her pale face. Dressed in the customary red and white garb of a miko and armed with only a quiver of arrows and a sturdy bow, she seemed out of place in the dangerous forest, as if she had taken a wrong turn and ended up here. But she was here intentionally. This place called to her like a lighthouse in the dark, a cryptic message born upon the raft of memory in that turbulent ocean of mind.

She had walked this path countless times, more than fifty years ago, and looked the same as she did then. But between then and now she had died. Her body had been burned and her remains buried, and for half a century she had remained at rest in the womb of the earth.

But then she had been awakened, and her soul caged in a body forged from her own long-dead bones and her own burial soil. _Forged_, like an iron tool, and indeed she had been resurrected for the purpose of being a tool, but a tool she would not be. She couldn't be a person either, not really. She couldn't be anything but a clay replica, but she would not let even her dead self be a tool.

Kikyo stretched out a pale hand, her cold fingertips lightly tracing the outline of the great scar on Goshinboku's trunk. It was where _he_ had been sealed for fifty years, by her own hand.

An autumn wind swept across the hills, stirring up the leaves piled up on the forest floor and snatching others from the branches of the shedding trees. Born upon the air, the jewels of the trees danced and twirled like courtiers at a masquerade ball, shades of gold and topaz and crimson, spinning and dipping in intricate step.

The miko raised her head to watch the baroque waltz, a silent dance set against the rustling applause of the leaves still clinging to the trees. _The perfect time of year_, she thought to herself. _Summer has not yet died, and Winter has not yet been born…a time between times, between a time of life and a time of sleep – the twilight of the seasons…_

She watched the leaves begin to spin more rapidly in the air before they were caught up in a greater gust of wind, and born up into the sky and out of her sight. Her dark eyes returned to Goshinboku, her gaze tracing the scar over the bark with the half-attention of one who has seen it so many times before it has been memorized again and again, etched so deep in the mind it could never have been forgotten.

Of course, she didn't need to see it all those times to remember. She could have never seen it all, yet known the exact shape all the same. She could see in her mind the way the bark would have grown around that red-clothed figure, slumbering in a timeless limbo between life and death. She could see every curve and angle, every crease and mark that would have formed as the years passed, the bark and wood of that great tree aging around an ageless hanyou.

A soft sound floated down through the air, like a single mournful note on a flute. A few pale lights, clustered together like the ghosts of fireflies, descended from the sky. As they grew closer, one standing at the viewpoint of Kikyo would see the lights become long, sinewy shapes, and then become the spectral forms of Shinidamachu, Kikyo's soul-catchers. They were like moonlight given serpentine form, beautiful in their reptilian grace. Each was guiding a soul with its insect-like legs, with an almost motherly protectiveness, tender in the gentle herding of their charges.

They hovered about Kikyo, undulating in the air. One by one, they swooped down to the miko, dropping the souls into her body. When all four present had delivered their charges, Kikyo reached out to one, gently stroking its reptilian head with a tender caress, a touch reserved for that which one felt to be very dear.

The Shinidamachu cooed softly at her gentle touch, like a few notes of a funeral dirge. It swirled about her in the air for a moment before quietly departing with its fellows. Kikyo stood in place, and watched the spectral lights until they disappeared from view. Even then, when her eyes could not see them, she knew where they were.

They were dear to her, those strange demons – they would follow her to death, asking nothing, giving everything; they did not recoil from her unnatural state of being, or flinch away at her cold, lifeless touch; they were always there, always caring, always watching over her; and she knew that at a moment's notice they would fly to the ends of the earth for a single soul, if just to keep their mistress 'alive' for a few more hours.

_Who would ever have thought?_ she mused to herself. _I am a miko, trained to kill that which is impure in this world. My Shinidamachu take the souls of girls once they have died – fifty years ago, that alone would have been enough for me to kill them without a second thought._

She knew that they did not really steal the souls, per say. It was more like they borrowed them, taking the soul from the body once it had died, and giving them to the miko. Kikyo would then let the souls go after a time, letting them enter the afterlife, which was why she continually needed more to replace the ones she released. _Still,_ thought Kikyo, _at most I should only tolerate them – they are youkai, after all._

But they are like my children, so loyal and true to me. They are scavengers, so weak that they cannot fight...I am their protector, their mother. A mother to youkai...I never would have thought of such a thing fifty years ago. But a lot has changed since when I was alive.

Turning her face away from the empty sky, Kikyo gazed once again at the accusing scar on Goshinboku's trunk, that deep wound that never truly healed...

With the autumn leaves swirling about her, the miko turned and walked away from the god-tree, stepping out of the fading light of the clearing into the shadows of the forest. Above her, dusk faded into evening, and the shy stars appeared one by one in the darkening sky. She stopped to gaze up at those crystalline stars, scattered fragments of silver dreams in the never-ending eternity of the night sky.

Kikyo smiled a sad smile at those stars, those countless frozen tears on Eternity's cheek. As cold and lifeless as they were ancient, they shone icily down on the world of the living.

It was a world that could never be theirs – unless they risked it all, and fell.

**-**

Well, that's it! Yes, I know it was rather rambling, but this actually started out as a sensory exercise for English class. So I had about a page of description (which I got ten out of ten on, if you were wondering) that I more or less attempted to stitch the beginnings of a plot into. I know it probably was quite pointless, but this is just the first chapter, so please bear with me!

Well, please review and tell me what you honestly think, even if it's something along the lines of "Your pathetic attempt at literature is horrendously mislead and is undoubtedly a miserable failure in all respects. Both you and Kikyo should die slow, painful deaths involving rusty nails, hot pokers, salted wounds, dull pickaxes, large quantities of sulfuric acid, and starving rabid squirrels."


	2. Lovers and Fools

Well howdy there, it's yours truly with another few pages of my shameless mockery of literature! If you're one of the two people that read this pitiful attempt at 'deep' writing, you may have noticed that I changed the title and made a few small changes to the previous chapter. Nothing major changed, just a few sentences restructured here or there, so there's no need to waste any time going back to reread chapter one.

And now that I've wasted some of your life, I might as well get on with the actual story.

Disclaimer:

Me: I don't own Inuyasha, Kagome, or any other character from the series mentioned in the story. I do own Kikyo though, mwahahaha! Or at least, I own a little six-inch high figurine I bought on eBay of her. -

Kikyo: I hate those things, they never get the hair right.

Me: Er, the story's starting... Aren't you supposed to be all pensive and angsty?

Kikyo: Oh, right. –coldness–

Me: Better.

Kikyo: Can we get on with it? This is pointless.

Me: You're no fun.

-

**The Persistence of Memory**

**Chapter Two: Lovers and Fools**

"Unless we remember we cannot understand."

- Edward M. Forster

Once upon a time, a foolish priestess fell in love with a foolish hanyou. It is hard to imagine how a priestess could find love in a half-youkai, so to tell this story we shall return to the beginning.

When the hanyou and miko first faced off, he made his intentions clear: he wanted the powerful Shikon Jewel she was protecting. The hanyou underestimated the miko, however, and she quickly had him immobilized with an arrow at his heart. But the moment before she would have killed him, the miko did something unexplainable; she lowered her bow without releasing the arrow, and turned and walked away.

It was not the last time the hanyou confronted the miko; he returned again and again, attempting to take the cursed Jewel by force though he failed every time. Every time he faced death at the point of her purifying arrows, and every time she stayed her hand, for some reason unable to do what she had been trained to do all her life.

Never before had she hesitated to kill any youkai that attempted to bring harm to her village, or sought the Jewel she had been entrusted with. Never had she faltered, never had she wasted a single second in thought, before that one hanyou.

But while she had never balked at killing any youkai, she did not kill without remorse. Every time she took a life, she could feel a little bit of her own soul slipping away. In time she grew cold and distant, an icy countenance and an unfeeling demeanor hiding the turmoil of her heart, shielding from sight the agony of a soul slowly and silently being torn to pieces.

Perhaps something about that one hanyou cut through the miko's shield, something in his insolent eyes that stayed her arrow. What did she see there that caused her to hesitate? Did she see humanity in those golden orbs? Did she see in his gaze a soul like hers, isolated and alienated, alone in a world that could not or would not accept them as one of their own?

The white-haired hanyou was feared by the people of the miko's village, and even despised. He was half-human, half-youkai, unacceptable to either race. He was an abomination in the eyes of both sides, a revolting mongrel suitable only to be the object of hate.

The miko had seen a few hanyou previously in her young life, in the short years before she had taken up her sacred duty. It had seemed to her that humans feared and hated those half-bloods more than they did full-demons, even though a hanyou would logically have only half the destructive power of a youkai. But they did not fear the half-breeds' power so much as they feared the half of each 'abomination' that was so undeniably human; they hated the mongrels not because of the youkai blood in their veins, but because they were just _too human_.

The miko was not feared or hated, but she was just as isolated as the hanyou. She couldn't have a bad day like normal people, or cry in front of others, or have fun like other young women her age could. She couldn't gossip and giggle about boys with the friends she didn't have, or waste her time with makeup or lovely clothing. Her people needed her to remain apart from them, needed her to be a clear and pure symbol, an immobile pillar in a shifting world of chaos. She could never be a real woman.

Perhaps the hanyou saw this, saw a dying soul much like his, alienated and alone. Perhaps, more than that, he saw the only person who bothered to see beyond his half-blooded pedigree, who did not look at him with disgust. Whatever it was, her love did not go unreturned.

Hanyou and priestess, half-blood and human, sharing something that went beyond race or rank, custom or society. History has a tendency to turn in circles, and lovers turn with it –– their names have been Oberon and Titania, Romeo and Juliet, Napoleon and Josephine, Lancelot and Guinevere; this time around, their names were Inuyasha and Kikyo.

xXxXxXx

The sunrise bloomed on the horizon like some great flower of celestial proportions, scarlet petals unfolding and turning to gold, turning the black of night into purple, then lilac, then destroying it altogether. Inuyasha watched the sun's birth with vague interest; how many sunrises had he seen? A hundred? Five hundred? A thousand? Still, as many times as he watched the sun's ascent, each day he was drawn towards it, hungering to witness the fiery display.

By the time the dawn had gotten a good foothold in the lightening sky, Inuyasha had lost interest and was now surveying his sleeping companions like a shepard watches his flock. He was perched comfortably in a thinly-foliaged tree, the largest one in the circle of trees that surrounded the small grove where the groups had made camp the night before.

Kagome was sleeping soundly, in that odd cocoon-like fabric sack she always insisted on using when the warm summer evenings had yielded to the chill autumn nights. Shippou was curled up in a snug ball in the girl's arms, the small kitsune's breath matching hers in peaceful rhythm. Sango's breaths were more shallow and irregular; Inuyasha could tell that she would awake soon. And then there was Miroku, who was only feigning sleep. The hanyou noted that while Miroku had started out the night on the opposite side of the grove from Sango, he was now only a few feet from the slumbering taijiya, who was sleeping on her stomach.

_He must have inched his way over during the night_, Inuyasha thought to himself. _And speaking of inching...yep, he's at it again._

The hanyou watched in mild amusement as the houshi's right hand inched slowly along the ground, creeping steadily towards Sango's backside. The taijiya mumbled in her sleep and shifted slightly, disturbing Kirara, who had been sleeping in a furry yellow ball on the back of the woman's neck. The cat demon yawned quietly and settled back into place. Miroku's hand, which had paused during Sango's movement, resumed its slow yet steady crawl across the ground. After a few minutes, the monk's palm finally found contact with the taijiya's rear.

Inuyasha had to hand it to Sango; she moved fast for someone half-asleep. Miroku had gotten maybe five seconds of grope-time in before Sango suddenly flipped over onto her back and sat up (swiftly dislodging poor Kirara entirely from her perch) and brought her own hand into contact with monk's face.

"Why Sango, my dear!" Miroku exclaimed in feigned shock, rubbing his stinging cheek with his left hand. "Whatever was that for?"

"You know very well, you pervert," growled the exterminator. "Pitiful excuse for a houshi you are, groping women in their sleep!"

"I assure you, my dear Sango, I would never have done such a thing!" cried Miroku, his voice horrified and his face sporting an excellent likeness of pure innocence.

"Oh really?" Sango drawled, giving the defensive monk a Look.

"Never, my dear, never!"

"I'm quite sure I distinctively felt a hand on my...backside."

"But why would you ever think it was me, my dear?"

"Because your hand is still there."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"An accident, I assure you."

"It's still there."

"It's still an accident."

Sango's next blow sent the perverted houshi back into dreamland, to visions of sake and women or whatever it was that he dreamed about. "Pervert," the taijiya muttered to herself, standing and stretching some of the night's stiffness out of her bones. Inuyasha couldn't help but notice, however, that there seemed to be a faint blush to the indignant exterminator's features, not exactly like the kind one experienced in embarrassment or anger.

Smiling knowingly to himself, the hanyou leapt almost soundlessly from his perch to the branch of an adjacent tree, landing neatly on the outstretched bough. He didn't remain there but continued leaping from tree to tree with practiced ease, heading to where he had mentally marked the presence of a well-used rabbit trail he had noted the previous evening. For some reason, Kagome didn't like to let him eat for breakfast those delicious dried noodles she kept in her backpack. Apparently, they weren't 'proper' breakfast fare, but in his opinion, neither was the usually vegetable-based stuff any of the others usually cooked up for breakfast.

A faint rustle below Inuyasha did not go unnoticed by his sensitive hearing. A predatory grin crept over the hanyou's weatherbeaten face as he crouched low on his chosen branch, watching the underbrush intently.

-

Ta-da! All done! Yeah, not much really happened. So sue me. What're you gonna go about it? Nyer nyer!

Kikyo: Uh, they could stop reading.

Me: Shhh! You'll give them dangerous ideas!

Kikyo: If they have any sanity left after reading these pitiful attempts at literature, they're already running in the opposite direction. They don't want their brains turned to mush by your empty musings and confusing rants.

Me: Must you be such a bitch about it?

Kikyo: It's what they pay me for.


	3. The Lady or the Tiger

Why lookie, it's another chapter! I know the scene at the end of last chapter with Miroku and Sango didn't quite go with the flow of the story, but by installing that part I have cleared all my debts with Pret. So Pret, if you're reading this, we are now completely even! Nyahaha!

Well, I'll not waste your time with further pointless rambling. On the story!

Oh yeah, I don't own Inuyasha or any other related characters.

* * *

**The Persistence of Memory**

**Chapter Three: The Lady or the Tiger**

Oh, how cruelly sweet are the echoes that start

When Memory plays an old tune on the heart!

– Eliza Cook

Kikyo absently stroked the head of the crooning Shinidamachu, gazing over the autumn forest without really seeing it. Winter was slowly stealing away the warm life of the world; the earth would soon freeze and the air would chill as Lady Frost wrapped her frigid fingers around Nature's heart. But, unlike Kikyo, the earth of the world would thaw and warm, come spring; the earth would live again.

With one last affectionate caress, the miko sent her soul-catcher on its way. The serpentine demon swirled about her for a moment like a silver ribbon before take its leave, disappearing into the lightening sky. Kikyo watched it go, then spent some time watching the last of the golden day unfold. She wondered who else watched that sunrise. Inuyasha had never voiced or even hinted at much appreciation for the beauty of the dawn's birth, but she knew he had always been drawn to it all the same.

Inuyasha... It was almost physically painful the way that name stirred so many conflicting emotions in her soul. She loved him, she could not deny that to herself, but there was a darkness deep within in her that had never truly been expelled. She knew its name; its name was Hate, and it thirsted for revenge, crying out ceaselessly for blood. His blood.

Just over fifty years ago, when that thrice-damned Naraku had taken the guise of her beloved... That was when the Hate had been born. When that false Inuyasha had fatally wounded her in both body and spirit, something deep within her stirred, and vowed to repay her lifeblood with his own. Then, when she had dragged herself back to the village, bloodied and broken, she had been forced to perform the ultimate act of betrayal.

_What other choice was there?_ the miko thought to herself. Truly, there had been no other way. But even that fact did nothing to dispel her grief. There were so very few things she could feel in this imitation body, this imitation life, but one of them was grief. She didn't just feel grief, she _was_ Grief, as much as she was Hate, as much as she was Love.

She could not have let him take the Sacred Jewel, whether 'Inuyasha' had killed her or not; when she fired that arrow into her beloved's heart, revenge had not been the motive behind her actions. For the sake of the villager's lives, for the sake of the thousands of lives that Inuyasha surely would have slaughtered in his uncontrollable youkai form, she had to do it. But more than that, she did it for him. She had seen the tides of bloodshed that had resulted from the wars over the Jewel, had seen the souls of the Jewel's 'masters' turn twisted and evil. In using the Scared Jewel, even in possessing it, Kikyo knew that Inuyasha would have surely died. The thing that would have resulted from the Jewel's use would not have been Inuyasha; it would have been a foul, evil perversion of the white-haired hanyou, the hanyou she loved.

But even in knowing this, knowing of the bloodshed and the evil that would arise from Inuyasha using the Jewel, she could not bring herself to kill him. She had stayed her shot until the moment he passed Goshinboku, the tree that transcended time. She had so often warned her little sister Kaede to be careful in shooting at Goshinboku, for a youkai pinned there by a miko's arrow would not die. Instead, they would be sealed in a timeless sleep, protected by the timeless God Tree, and could be released later by one with the sacred gifts of a miko.

Even in her moment of despair, Kikyo had somehow held a flicker of hope that Inuyasha would be released one day, perhaps by Kaede, when the Jewel had been purified and destroyed. If not Kaede, then some other miko; ten years later, fifty years later, a century later... Time would not matter to Inuyasha in his death-sleep.

Yet even though she knew that Inuyasha would not die, when she had fired that sealing arrow, the last remaining pieces of her heart had shattered. She had thought her heart had broken when the false Inuyasha had split both her flesh and soul, but when she fired that arrow... When she had fired that arrow, what had been fragments turned to dust.

What had risen from those ashes of a bloodied love? Kikyo knew. It was there that the Hate took form, had risen as a corrupted phoenix of nightmare. For fifty years had her sleeping soul steeped in that Hate. She knew she could never be free from it now; too much time had passed since the day it took hold of her.

There was a piece of her, though, that stirred warmly when she thought of Inuyasha. It was but a mere candle's flame against the icy glacier of Hate, but it was something all the same. Her shred of Hope had been fulfilled: the hanyou had been released, set free by that strange young miko in a world not her own. But would have death been a better alternative? Would it have been better for Inuyasha and her to meet again in the next world, and share the love there that they could not share on the mortal plane? That miko, that Kagome, her own reincarnation...she was changing Inuyasha. It seemed to be for the better, so should she not be happy? Should she not feel some sort of contentment (assuming she could feel such things with her sham body of dirt and bones) in knowing that the one she loved was accepting his own compassion, his own kindness?

Kikyo smiled a sad, grim smile. Weren't things like this supposed to become clearer after death?

xXxXxXx

Inuyasha's ears pointed forward as he crept silently closer to the disturbance in the underbrush. The hanyou's golden eyes flashed with a predatory gleam as his teeth chattered quietly in anticipation of the pounce. He knew Kagome didn't approve whenever he came back with blood around his mouth and toothmarks around the neck of whatever he had caught, but right now he didn't care. She didn't understand what it was like to be on the prowl, every sense sharpened to deadly perfection, every nerve alive with the white-hot flame of primal instinct. Nobody did. What human could?

The hanyou paused a few feet from the rustling bushes when he caught the scent of something certainly not a rabbit. How had he not sensed it before? As if on cue, the 'rabbit' glided out from the cover of the tangled underbrush, undulating lazily in the air and cooing softly in its otherworldly 'voice'. The Shinidamachu swirled in pointless circles around him before it drifted away into the trees, moving through the air like the ghost of a sidewinder moving over the dunes of the other world.

Inuyasha watched it go, an unreadable expression on his face. A fiery debate raged within him for a moment, though to the torn hanyou it seemed like the inner feud went on for years.

"Wait!" he called after the retreating silver light, jumping up onto the bough of the closest tree and racing after it, leaping deftly from one treetop to another, his eyes fixed on the pale serpentine shape ahead of him.

xXxXxXx

She knew he was coming. Still, she did not turn around as the red-robed figure landed crouched in the clearing behind her.

"Kikyo..."

The whisper was almost so soft that she could not hear it. Not a flicker of emotion passed over her porcelain face as she felt him step towards her, stopping just an arm's length from her. "Kikyo," he whispered to her back. She could hear every clashing emotion in his pleading whisper, could hear the hope, the sorrow, the regret, the anger.

Slowly, the miko turned to face him, searching for something in his golden eyes. She lifted a pale, dead hand and touched his face lightly with cold fingertips.

"Inuyasha."

* * *

Well then, so that was Chapter Three. Brownie points for anyone who can guess why I used that title!

And by Kikyo's insistence, or at least at the insistence of my little Kikyo figurine (yes, I talk to my action figures), I'll be answering/responding to any reviews I get in this space.

**Sifauna Auria** Yes! Another human being that doesn't see Kikyo as just an undead obstacle! –hugs you– And it wasn't Kikyo in the bushes but you were close. Hm, I'm getting predictable again, I've have to work on that. Well, actually I dunno when I _wasn't_ rather predictable so maybe I'll hold off on that. And I don't really know where I learned to write like that; just reading a lot I guess. Reading too much Stockton and Hawthorne will do that to you.

**Hikari: **Tenth, thanks for asking. But I still don't hold a candle to some of the people in my Creative Writing class. And I'll watch my sentence structure, thanks!

Joy! Two people! That's two more than I expected! –does a pathetic little dance–

Well, my muse is currently out of town, but when she gets back I'll update.


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